demeterxcrwnd-blog

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Send me a faceclaim and I’ll tell you who they’d be in my muse’s life as a NPC

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Astrology Aesthetics [10/12] Capricorn

Considered the most serious-minded of the signs, the Capricorn possesses an independence that allows for considerable progress both personally and on the job. They are best suited for urban environments with culture and style, anyplace to be in charge.

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Memory Meme

xxmoved-blog:

Past experiences help shape who we are currently, how we see the world. Send in a symbol and I’ll write a drabble of one of my muse’s memories. 

❥ - a childhood memory

♣ - a fading memory

✂ - a vivid memory

✖ - a repressed memory

✈ - an eye-opening memory

✤ - a memory that involves romance/love

☤ - a memory of death/loss

✍ - a memory of their mother

☽ - a memory of their father

✌ - a memory of a relative

↕ - a memory that may or may not have happened

♚ - a memory of something paranormal

✓ - a sexual memory

♬ - a friend/best friend memory

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When you were young and your heart was an open book You used to say live and let live. But if this ever-changing world in which we’re living makes you give in and cry, Say live and let die.

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BASICS

Name: Gwendolen “Gwen” Rebecca Shaughnessy Age: 49 Affiliation: Old Olympus Occupation: Consigliere Faceclaim: Gillian Anderson Status: TAKEN by Kaitlyn

THE STORY

They call you Demeter. You have seen and been through more than any of these newcomers could ever expect. The streets were even harsher back then, and nothing was ever handed to you as you sprouted from nothing as you crawled through dirt and mud to get to where you were. You were there when Cronus was not quite so powerful, but you stood by his side through every decision and mistake that he made. You have spilled your share of blood, steeled yourself, and over the years, you earned Cronus’ trust, and eventually his love. Love was never a part of your plan, and the agonizing pain that came with losing Cronus only reminded you why you should never have loved in the first place. Those who know your name know that you’re not one to be taken lightly - you were and still are the pillar, the cornerstone of Olympus. There’s no question that Olympus isn’t what it used to be, but you’ll do whatever you can to continue Cronus’ legacy, because you are one of the few people who truly understand and believe in its power. 

CONNECTIONS

PERSEPHONE - You were young when your friends suddenly died and left you in charge of their child, your godchild. You were not a perfect parent by any means, but you care for them deeply. You wonder if you should have kept them away from the life you led, kept them clueless and protected, but you couldn’t hide it from them forever. You think that maybe this is your way of protecting them; letting them see the real world and showing them how to come out on top. 

PAEAN - Even when you were with Cronus, you never felt the need to lean on anyone. You’ve always been the Mother Hen, taking care of everyone around you but yourself. But with Paean, it’s different. Maybe you’re just getting old, or you’re finally feeling the weight of a dying Olympus, but you feel like you can tell them anything. And you appreciate that mutual trust and admiration for each other - something you were never allowed to have before. 

ATLAS - A part of you was curious to find out what Atlas would be like - the real heir of Cronus, someone who held so much power and strength. But you have seen Atlas now and you see someone who still has too much to learn. It’s difficult to understand your own feelings when it comes to Atlas, because you’re not sure what Cronus would have wanted. You don’t want to hurt Atlas, but there’s no way you’ll let a child get a hold of Cronus’ Olympus, heir or not. 

SUGGESTED FACECLAIMS

Viola Davis, Gina Torres, Alfre Woodard, Lucy Liu, Jorge Garcia, Idris Elba, Simon Baker

Keep reading

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I think hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.

Neil Gaiman, The Sandman. (via wordsnquotes)

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arthxrs:

It really was quite impressive, how finely tailored every detail of the party was. It felt like Disney World; Arthur unable to have any want at all without finding his need satisfied just as soon as it’d come up. He’d switched from wine to whiskey; pool talk to patio talk - all in the span of a couple hours. It was exhausting, and thrilling. Arthur was glad he’d come. 

He’d moved back inside to get away from the heat, eyes scanning the premises to find something to do. Bad habit of his, walking without paying attention. Eventually Arthur found himself up against the railings of the staircase. Idly he wondered whether it’d be worth it to find out what, or who was up there. But the thought was quickly pulled and replaced by a voice to his immediate left. His eyes lit up with amusement almost immediately, Arthur not bothering to hide the chipper grin on his face. – “You know, I actually like it.” he said decisively. “At first it’s a little… but you grow to kind of lose yourself in it.” The dripping hair, the towel around his neck, the several drinks he’d consumed over the course of the evening were all great indications of that. Arthur was the type to make good fun out of almost anything, and fortunately, he was also the type to drag others into the whirlwind as he went.

“But barring the current evening, how’s my favorite lady doing?” Arthur asked. “Keeping your part of the city a tight ship I’ll bet.” He took care to glaze over the subject, knowing better than to talk details in such a public setting. But Arthur was always curious to see where Gwen’s head was at. With Old Olympus, with the Titans. If he were smarter, he’d try to pick her brain. How she was dealing with the changing tides was no doubt far better than Arthur’s way. He planned on operating as usual for the most part, intending to cross those bridges when he was forced to them. But Gwen was vastly more intelligent than he, more savvy. If anyone, she’d be the lone survivor when the three mobs fought themselves to ruin. 

His eyes clocked a moving tray nearby as he spoke: tequila shots. The sight was almost comical on such a fancy platter, but Arthur reached out nonetheless, grabbing two from the tray as the waiter passed. “I don’t think anyone would blame you if you took the night to reconvene though.” he said, offering both a shot glass and a stupidly smug grin to her.

Arthur. If she’d been any less sober she might have sworn out loud. At an afternoon of revelry like this, rife with sunshine, swaths of free liquor, and the opportunity to mix his poisons, from Titan to Olympian, she should have known that she would end up running into him at some point. She’d only hoped she’d have a touch more vodka coursing through her system by that time to smother the sweet talk into tolerability. Only he’d be thriving at a thing like this.

“Well,” she began, spreading her hands across the railing and shifting her weight onto one ivory pant-legged hip, “Someone has to keep the children in line.” She didn’t bother to smooth the exasperation from her tone before adding, “I assume the...phamaceuticals business is still treating you well.” She’d be lying if she said she didn’t envy Arthur, even in the slightest - to be able to court who you wanted, to pick your own battles in this messy civil war was a luxury that very few in their line of business had, especially in the light of recent events. It certainly explained his perpetual nonchalance while the rest of them steeled themselves lest the enemy catch them unawares. She wasn’t sure how, over the course of his dealings with the mob, that she’d become his favorite, for she was far from thornless (a lesser man might have thrown in the towel by now, but as she’d learned, Arthur was nothing if not...persistant), but at the core of her she did appreciate the levity, even if it came in the form of tequila shots and corny, platonic come-ons.

Carefully eyeing the shot he’d extended to her, exactly the something stronger she’d been looking for, coupled with the impossibly goofy grin on his face, she was almost tempted. It certainly would make for an unexpected twist of events in the evening’s program, but ultimately she thought better of it. She wasn’t about to give him that kind of satisfaction. Taking the glass from him, she just as quickly plunked it onto the tray of a passing waiter, effectively ruining a display of White Zinfandel, before snagging the one he’d claimed for himself and downing it with a quick toss of her head. “Touché,” she added, her eyes glinting as the corner of mouth quirked up into a rare, self-satisfied smirk of her own. 

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Photo by Nadav Kander for The Guardian

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📱 !

What ringtone my muse has set for yours:

Well-Respected Man by The Kinks

What contact photo my muse has set for yours:

What my muse thinks of the way yours texts:

Incorrigible - the way she finds just about everything else about Arthur. His suave attempts to weasel his way into her good graces have prompted many an eye roll, but every now and then the most begrudging of smiles.

How quickly my muse responds to your texts:

She doesn’t. Could be hours, could be days. Every now and again she tries to humor him by getting back to him immediately just to throw him a bone. When he’s not interfering in the day-to-day running of her empire, she actually likes the drug manufacturer far more than she’d ever let on.

How often our muses call:

Infrequently. Gwen only ever calls Arthur when she needs to talk business, and she knows that, for the most part, he only ever calls her when he wants to get under her skin.

Does my muse purposefully miss calls from yours?

Not usually, on the off chance that it’s something urgent or important. More often than not she’s sorely disappointed when he’s only looking to check up on her for a heart-to-heart or wanting to share some tidbit about cows.

Last text from my muse sent to yours: 

An unanswered message from Arthur with her ‘Read’ receipts on.

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📱

What ringtone my muse has set for yours:

Conversation 16 by The National

What contact photo my muse has set for yours:

What my muse thinks of the way yours texts:

Not unlike the way she feels about their conversations in person, Gwen tends to feel like there’s something left unsaid from both sides of the conversation. As charming or even funny as Richie can be, carrying on like they’re family in the midst of their rivalry feels especially facetious.

How quickly my muse responds to your texts:

It typically takes her a while to get back to Richie, though not necessarily by choice. With most, Gwen is a straightforward, no-nonsense texter, but it often takes her some time to work through all of the layers of meaning and complexity to come up with the perfect response when Richie texts her. She doesn’t want to mince words.

How often our muses call:

Rarely, if ever. And if so it’s usually either business or Harvey related. 

Does my muse purposefully miss calls from yours?

No. Gwen is well-aware that if Richie is calling her, there must be some kind of method behind it, so she’s careful to screen all of them if she can.

Last text my muse sent to yours:

Gwen: Found some old pictures of you and your father at the house upstate. You can pick them up at the hotel if you want them.

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Send 📱 To Find Out About My Muse's Phone

What ringtone my muse has set for yours:

What contact photo my muse has set for yours:

What my muse thinks of the way yours texts:

How quickly my muse responds to your texts:

How often our muses text:

How often our muses call:

Does my muse purposefully miss calls from yours:

Last text sent from my muse to yours:

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edisonvilensky:

Eddie finds the energy of those around zir exhausting rather than energising. The party is showing no signs of slowing, despite the fact that it’s somewhere around seven PM, and ze wonders how they all manage it. Ze’s been here for the better part of an hour and ze is already feeling half-deflated. Ze rubs a hand across zir face and takes a large gulp of zir schnapps and lemonade. Too sugary.

Ze goes to lean against the balcony, glad of something to rest a little of zir weight on, and looks out across the bay. The ocean glitter stings zir eyes a little, even through zir shades, and the call of the birds wheeling overhead and the loud music are giving zir a small headache. Just a small one. It’s taking root in zir brain, pushing its roots through zir grey matter in search of nutrients. Ze closes zir eyes for a second against the sun’s glare.

Then the woman next to zir, a blonde woman with a serious expression, speaks up and ze glances at her. Ze feels like ze vaguely recognises her, but ze isn’t sure where from. Maybe she’s another socialite, somebody ze recognises from the Instagram posts of the rich and famous. Somehow, ze doubt that. The way she carries herself says that she’s important. She’s probably a politician.

“Not the only one,” ze agrees, “not at all. They’re so focused on looking like they’re having fun, I wonder if they really are.”

Polishing off the final sip of her glass, Gwen hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder at the figure who’d made themselves comfortable at her side. She hadn’t particularly expected a response, her musings a rhetorical slip of the tongue more than anything else, but misery (or at the very least, seething boredom) loved company, and anyone inclined to see past the veil of functioning alcoholic politician’s wives and state senators’ latest sidepieces to the truly laughable intermingling of the bigshots of the underground on the brink of battle was worth at least her civility.

There was something familiar about this one though. Tall, good-looking - not unlike every other halfway handsome Hamptonite wandering around in board shorts and beer in hand - if not a bit out of place. Perhaps it was the devil-may-care tinge to zir tone or the tired expression that lingered behind zir sunglasses, but Gwen knew she had seen them before. Titan, one of Syrus’ new cohorts, or otherwise she kept a poker face as she mulled over her response, her features drawn. She hummed in consideration before murmuring measuredly, “Status makes great pretenders of us all,” and testing the waters, she extended a pristinely manicured hand - no better way than the straightforward approach to determine just which side of enemy lines ze fell upon. The lipstick pistol still cool wedged against her sternum was all the assurance she needed. With a benign smile she added, “Gwendolen. Shaughnessy.”

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ofxhera:

Victoria had been attending parties like this for as long as she could remember. It was almost as if they were in her veins. It was the sort of place where her father and mother could pretend they liked each other, where her mother would have shown off her weight loss and drank until she forgot her sorrows. It was the sort of environment where her father would have made secret business dealings under the table, unable to forget the world of corporate power for even one day. Victoria had never belonged - not truly, in her heart of hearts anyway, to either of their worlds. And yet, she found herself here nonetheless. Perhaps it truly is impossible to escape your upbringing. On account of the number of childhood issues permeating across the various mobs, she sure hoped so.

People were useless when they were sentimental.

Which was why she never allowed herself even the temptation of it - no matter how appealing an option it might appear. Never dwell on the past, never allow it to corrupt you, control you - or snake its way into your soul, until you can see little else. Not that Victoria would have characterized her past as possessing demons. Such creatures had readily been embraced by the likes of she, used as a mechanism to steal power from under the noses of others and cement her status. So, where some might have lamented her decision to kill Cronus - to bring a violent and chaotic reckoning down upon their heads, a schism that couldn’t be healed, Victoria was not one of them. The idea of consequences had simply never occurred to her. So, when she found herself gazing into the eyes of the woman he had left behind, she simply blinked. You couldn’t act remorseful if you had no remorse.

Gwen was a funny, odd soul - but Victoria liked her all the same. A woman who had survived the thorned world of men and come out stronger - some might argue, leading the pack - it was easy to appreciate her. Sometimes, Victoria might have even called them friends. Who cared for the secrets buried between them? Shrugging at Gwen’s comment, Victoria drained her glass. “At least it’s free. And a chance to survey the opposition - their numbers, their dynamics-” Victoria crooned at a figure across the pool. “-Their taste in clothing.” 

Taking in Victoria’s familiar silhouette, pin-straight black hair and stare as steely as her own, Gwen calmed a little, though it could just as easily have been the warmth of the champagne finally taking its effect, dulling the drudgery of an afternoon wasted. If she’d been a different woman - the elegant socialite, the sharp-tongued entrepreneur the rest of the world saw when she made appearances in Forbes Magazine or page four of the Times - she could have enjoyed this, but while the celebrities and the social climbers romped, she had far more dire things to contend with. 

Ever so slightly tipping her glass in Victoria’s direction in a silent toast to the virtues of free booze and manufactured debauchery, however few and far between they were, Gwen sipped from her glass and sighed, bracing her hands against the balcony as she shifted back onto her heels, her stilettos clacking against the grooves in the masonry. To say that she was grateful for the company would have been an overstatement, but she liked Victoria - respected her at the very least - for their world was certainly not an easy one to make it in, especially as a woman, and she had more than earned her place in the pantheon. And Gwen would be a hypocrite if she couldn’t get past the ruthlessness that bubbled just below the surface.

Following the other woman’s gaze across the deck below to some truly egregious blend of cheap tropical on nautical on pastel prep, she could barely contain a snort, lips curling into what was perhaps the first genuine smile she’d mustered all day. “And pray tell, what is your assessment of said opposition?” she began, eyes widening in acknowledgment of the true disaster below them before running a hand through her slicked back locks, the other lifting her glass back to her lips, “Beyond Hawaiian harakiri?”

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The white marble cool beneath her palms and the fizzle of her third glass of champagne blossoming with electricity as it trickled behind the hollow of her throat, Gwen surveyed the pool deck below milling with bathing suit clad bodies and the midsummer-warmed Atlantic just beyond it with the resigned contempt of one for whom duty was becoming mind-numbingly old at an ever-quickening rate.

Girls in bikinis shrieked with laughter as they were careened into the chlorinated water, the cheery droll of the Beach Boys’ “I Get Around” thudded through loudspeakers, and despite the way that a soft, salty breeze drifting in off the ocean cooled the July haze to what any other day would have been perfection, Gwen couldn’t help but feel on edge. There was a part of her that would never understand the Manhattanite lifestyle, even if she lived it for another twenty years - the carefully crafted facades, the galas grinding on gossip alone, the soirees where everyone pretended with a benign smile that the rest of the room wasn’t out for blood. War was war, and she’d much rather be firing down enemy lines than making small talk with the very same villains. Twisting the stem of her champagne flute between her manicured fingertips, she couldn’t help the thought that she was going to need something one hell of a lot stronger to get through the rest of this.

She was broken from her reverie, however, by the appearance of a figure in the corner of her eye, lingering beside her at the banister. Crossing an arm across her midsection and taking another careful sip of Veuve Cliquot, her gaze still trained on the turbulent blue-black waves crashing onto shoreline, she murmured measuredly more to herself than anyone else, “Tell me I’m not the only one who finds this all a bit...farcical.”

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